


orange juice on a sunday morning

by makemelovely



Category: Scream (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Character Death, Character Study, Father-Daughter Relationship, Fatherhood, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-27
Updated: 2018-04-27
Packaged: 2019-04-28 19:20:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14456040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/makemelovely/pseuds/makemelovely
Summary: You pour her orange juice in her favorite glass, and this is fatherhood.//or the one where people have layers, and Quinn Maddox loves his daughter.





	orange juice on a sunday morning

You almost miss your daughter’s birth. It’s terrible, you know, but you got caught up at the office. You have been planning your campaign for years, and you had hit gold on a slogan. You had gotten caught up in a flurry of creativity.

 

“Where were you?” Your wife asks, a scream tearing out of her throat. Her hand clasps your tightly, and you think that maybe she’ll break your hand.

 

“At the office.” You tell her, and she nods like she doesn’t believe you.

 

A few painful hours later your daughter is born, shrieking and sobbing and stained red. You smile because your daughter is a fighter. She’ll be trouble when she’s older but for now she is just your pride and joy.

 

Her name is Brooke, and you love her.

 

* * *

 

Your daughter’s name is Brooke and she’s making your life hell.

 

“I want to go to Nina’s!” She demands on Sunday. You tell her no, and she throws your phone across the room where it shatters as it hits the wall. She smirks, and you sigh.

 

“I want juice!” She whines on Monday when you take her to the store. You had been forced to take her because Monica decided to jet to France on another retreat. You tell her no, and she sits down and screams her lungs out while other adults look at you with disgust in their eyes. You get her the juice, only because you’re tired of the staring. She says she hates it, but she drinks it all.

 

“I want to go to the park!” She begs on Tuesday. You tell her you have meetings all day but she won’t listen. She keeps asking, her voice going higher and higher as she asks. It’s continuous and you hate it. It’s giving you a headache. You give in after an hour of her pleas, and you call up Nina’s parents and ask if they’ll take her to park with Nina. They say yes, and Brooke beams the entire way to their house. She says she loves you, and you don’t say it back. You’re late, and you have to go. You don’t miss the disappointment in her eyes, and you suppose you’ll talk to her about it when you get home. You forget.

 

“I want to stay home!” She shouts on Wednesday, desperate to avoid starting kindergarten. You laugh, tell her she can’t. Her eyes flash, and sigh internally. Here we go, you think. You feel like you’ve aged fifty years in the last ten minutes. You drop her off, and don’t wait long enough for her to wave goodbye to you.

 

“I want to go to the movies!” She wails on Thursday, her hands pressed into her hips. She’s wearing jeans and a sweater that looks like one Nina brought over last week for their sleepover. You ask her what movie she wants to see, and she says something about a talking dog. You call Nina’s parents and they are happy to take her. When Brooke gets home she tells you all about the film and how you would’ve liked it. You smile, and you don’t tell her that you probably would have hated it.

 

“I want spaghetti!” She complains on Friday, pouting at her salad. She stabs the leaves angrily, shoving one after the other in her mouth until her cheeks puff out like a chipmunks. You frown, and tell her to eat her dinner without fussing. You may add a snide comment in their that Monica would laugh at then scold you for, but you honestly can’t remember. She finishes her dinner in silence, her eyes cast angrily downwards. She puts the plate in the sink, and makes her way upstairs. You think she probably slams her door, but your house is so big you wouldn’t be able to hear if she did.

 

“I want Mommy!” She sobs on Saturday, curled into a ball on her bed. She’s got the flu, and she had thrown up that morning. You smooth her hair, and murmur soothingly. She falls asleep eventually, peaceful and sleepy. You love your daughter so much your heart feels like it could burst sometimes.

 

“I want to go to Nina’s!” She demands on Sunday, sipping her orange juice resentfully. Rinse and repeat, you think.

 

* * *

  
  


You pour her orange juice in her favorite glass, and this is fatherhood

 

* * *

Brooke turns ten and she smiles so brightly that it hurts. Your daughter is growing up, and you wonder how much you’ve missed. Monica sits beside you, her smile carefully controlled. You bitterly wonder how much she’s missed, and you miss the way Brooke’s eyes turn wary. They’re back to normal in a split second, and you never know they changed.

 

* * *

Brooke turns eleven, then twelve, thirteen, and at some point in time she’s sixteen years old. She’s sleeping with her teacher, you learn, and you see red. Everything in you urges you to go find him and kill him for preying on your baby girl.

 

You see her barely dressed in her panties and bra, arms folded protectively over stomach and tear tracks all down her cheeks. You feel it in your chest; this burning, fierce and angry. You swallow it back, and wrap your suit jacket around her. It stains red, and you find that it doesn't matter.

 

When she comes home from the hospital, you pour her orange juice.

 

* * *

 

You’re choking on your own blood and that goddamn mask swims in and out of your vision. Brooke flashes through your mind. Who’s going to pour her orange juice now?


End file.
